


tell me stories

by Ketchrey



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Carolina has Sigma, Gen, RvB Secret Santa 2017, Tex reaches Alpha in time, Texas vs the Freelancers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-22 03:50:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13158672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ketchrey/pseuds/Ketchrey
Summary: Texas follows Omega’s instincts this time around. She knows what she is, and who’s to blame for Alpha. All she needs now is to make them pay.





	tell me stories

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for my secret santa, [@leonardalphachurch](http://leonardalphachurch.tumblr.com) who asked for anything with the AIs. Happy Holidays friend! I’m hoping you enjoy a smidgen of angst with that cocoa;)

 

  
You’ll remember later, only the key details of this revolt.

You’ll remember stepping over one man in a lab jacket, making awful guttural noises on the ground, blocking your way to reaching him. You couldn’t recall whether you were feeling anger when the head of Freelancer indirectly explained what it is that you are. The label influencing your attack wasn’t of panic but purpose, and even making him choke out his last, the kill-drive hadn’t reared away.

Clarity had come, and only briefly, through a flush of warmth and color...followed by crashes of ache. They had treated you as well as any human, but offered him no such decency.

“You came back.”

You nearly abort right there, hit with an overhaul of guilted nausea. Alpha is not how he was to you before. Quakes rattle the underside of his words, too adolescent, too earnest... They had made a botch job of him. But he could remember.

Discouragingly hopeful, you had pressed him. “You know who I am?”

“Yeah.” His vocals crackle. “Yeah, you–you’re Tex. ...I don’t. Did you need...?”

“I need you to come with me.”

 

 

You do remember that it was talk of your body’s foundation and properties of reverse-modulation, that had you paying much closer attention.

Mark VI Spartan wear does not get clipped ‘just right’, just as soon as it doesn’t short out entire limb ligaments for the duration of a repair. They had the audacity to _lie_.

There were points to the skepticism which had you convinced Omega was somewhat responsible for how you derailing. Mastering the function of ‘jumping’ from host to host had made him decidedly more ruthless– quick to upset, quicker still in upsetting himself.

* _Ohhho yes of course, it’s_ my _fault that you’ve been absolutely chomping at the bit._ *

Cutting down from a run above the upper level’s deck, you granted Omega the leeway to move. He seeps into the walls of a control panel you would only have thought to bash open.

“Pull him.” Alpha had begun urging not two seconds after being inserted alongside the fragmented program. He has already sanctioned himself access to all the reels in your memory bank. Given that he’d come online to the body of a former creator, the fact he’d be dissecting and connecting it to the rest of your killings was an initial given...but in doing so he might have unhinged himself a bit more than was good for either one of you. “Dammit Tex, throw him out the pressure lock.”

You’d ignored because Omega was no good at first impressions, and Church never has delved too deeply into his own shortcomings.

What you don’t share–what he had already grasped, was that the countering to most recent provocations hadn’t been fully outsourced.

Omega might be the something breathing down your neck, manipulating fight or flight responses like he had you hooked to a switch. But the animosity he bled distorts in ultra violet.

What you had been driven to doing on the observation deck couldn’t be chalked down to Omega’s influence. When your gauntlet had constricted around that awful man’s throat, yours were the eyes watching life expire from his.

This is a revelation that should resonate deeper–Later though, while you aren’t still busy reining in a chaos-fuelled psychopath.

The alert Omega gives as he pushes away from the module carries enough intent for the both of you.

* _Off you go.*_

The passage is for maintenance crews, unlocked periodically through cycles. It is also unreasonably snug on armor. You wrench through crevices too narrow, snaring several batches of wires loose in the fraught effort. As a second thought, you take fistfuls of upcoming cable nests and tear them from their sockets. The damage might not bring this vessel of internment to a fiery demise, but does it ever feel gratifying.

The Freelancers have already made it to Deck B. You’re about to be confronting the first wave head on and Alpha is spamming the system trying to assuage your directive.

You could remember he tried explaining once, back lifetimes ago, when he still had the emotional intelligence to go off of.

_“It’s not that they don’t like you. They’re just...unsure what to make of you.”_

You doubt the Freelancers are unsure of what to make of you now. They’ve seen you coming, they know the sheen of blood donning your chassis and forearms—know theirs could be glazing it next.

The thoroughness of this distrust becomes clearer by the moment, and by the approaching gulf of friendlies on Omega’s radar. Clusters that so happen to be dispersing around either ends of MOI’s external ports, from the exit ramps to shuttle decks.

The absolute nearest exit deck comes up only a level below as you cross out of maintenance alley onto an open catwalk. In emulation of a large predator, you execute a drop onto the next landing... where South Dakota is sprinting to intercept.

Both twins seem to dart out of your blindspots, giving Omega a brief fluster before he’s reevaluating. Provided an opening, South would strike like a viper but the same ruthlessness couldn’t be expected of North. Next in line for an A.I., he snipes as though he already has one.

* _Kill them_ * Omega chants.* _Kill_ _them all_ *

South is right on your tail, screaming out profanities and getting on every one of your nerves. Attenuating the driving force in your armor’s rotation, you swivel, facing off with her at full charge. Clumsily, she pivots wide and you just about miss the silver arc of a blade. The knife cleaves at just the right spot between throat and jawline, downlink giving out with a pop of static. With the distraction of South, the small laser landing on your sternum goes unheeded.

The punch of North’s bullet is shocking. Live wires spark and fritz above your breast, overheating at an incremental rate until cooling systems are alerted. Your circuits are troubleshooting and Omega is laughing as you book it the fuck out of there.

“Shut. Up.” You can feel Alpha rising, alerted by the rebooting systems. “Fucking _contain_ him.”

He makes the digital equivalent of an eye roll before falling back into route paving. The hall leading to the set of ports dividing you from the launch deck is within sight. Relief flutters like a moth up from your gut, only to stick at the back of your throat.

Carolina stalks between the last port from your exit, resembling an apex predator fully tensed, the lick of fire behind her visor contributing to the image. Washington and York are drawn up at her flank, and there is a dull eminent of green quieting off between them.

Slowing to a halt with Omega growling, you override all instincts telling you to pick up speed and charge at them.

Alpha stirs, drawn back into the commotion of your inner turmoil. “Don’t kill them. Beta? ...Tex, Please.”

Shoving him back down you risk a few decidedly smaller lengths towards the offending group, Carolina’s glare burning brighter for each footfall.

Within somewhat comfortable range, your throat clears. “What was it I did to deserve such a grand send off? Here I was thinking you all didn’t like me.”

The heavy silence returns, and you take note of Washington’s slighted tilt towards Carolina, ready for her advance. It’s through York that any asylum is given, though from the look of it even he’s struggling.

“Glad to hear it’s still you in there.” York calls, and to your chagrin, he genuinely sounds it. “How about we talk this out before anybody else starts shooting?”

Good old, York.

Delta emerges from behind him and Wash, whirring for intimidation above his Freelancer.

Alpha’s nudge has become more of a punch. “ _Leave_ them,  _alone_.” His voice shakes.

This wall the Freelancer’s have established isn’t wavering. Washington has his fingers coiled on the trigger and Carolina is quietly tensed, ready for negotiations to fall through. An alert draws your attention to the fourth friendly’s signal, running down the intersecting corridors a level up.

* _Fools_ *

York’s rifle has lowered just enough to provide an illusion of compliance, beyond this there is Carolina and Washington with the kill shots. Even before throwing in Omega’s leash, you’ve prepared for the outcome.

Carolina had anticipated for you to launch at her. Like you, she withholds weaponry, to go in for a grapple. What she hadn’t been expecting was for you to use her coiled frame as a scaffold.

Omega takes the wheel, manipulating Carolina’s body into covering yours while the distance is sealed. Later you will abdicate his decision, conceding that it was what saved you both. Even with a belly packed with shrapnel Washington would have unloaded the clip that cripples you, with Carolina on pointed standby, and Maine barreling down from the elevator shafts closing in...

Your body flexes off of Omega’s lead, Carolina’s armor scraping yours as you loop her neck and vault. Washington takes the narrow window to shoot a chink roughly the size of a golfball out of your wrist. Off-kilter, Omega evaluates your pistol’s kickback, and executes point blank.

The fell shot takes Washington’s balance and you hear him falling into York, who makes an aborted sound as you blow past.

“ _No_ , _no_! You shot him? Oh God why would you do that? Why did you do that, they didn’t know! They were never involved in this!”

But they were.

Omega feels dazed, taken out by an overwhelming salvo of the delights in getting to abuse the full extent of your strength. He’s still out of focus as the friendly on digital display comes up hard and fast.

You realize the oversight in the midst of a gritted peel, followed by the separation of alloy. Threads of wire coming apart with alarming gusto spurts you into motion, pulling back just in time to save the rest of your leg from the bruteshot blade. You have the wherewithal to stagger out of range for the whistle of Maine’s bulk, just barely. He has the thrust capacity of a fucking airship.

In the moments between interception, Omega’s scintillating view flips over yours like kaleidoscope lenses, clouded around the edges. Then you’re cutting to a third of your height, quads kissing the ground as Maine drives himself at you again, fist cleaving the delicate sub-surface ligature between your shoulders—something _pings!_ loose.

Bouncing with impact inertia, you throw back the same blow with x-times the machine grade of thrust. Into the gap below his neck, clipping a nerve of spine below vertebrae. Dizzily, he rounds back. Alpha has a shout ready to go as you resecure the pistol and raise it to the area Maine is still scrambling to assess.

An amber plate intercepts the slug millimetres off his back.

You haven’t the time to conjugate the range behind one of Sigma’s defences, only enough to register Carolina has returned to the fight and she’s been fitted with a speed mod.

* _Time to be going._ *

As if you needed to be told.

You make it up to mid-latter deck, pushing all the mods threatening to slow you down. Omega gives a muted cue at the side of your vision, a pod bay on the second flor against the Drop port, loaded with three pods of varied classes. The leg Maine had taken offline is spitting at the groove that joins it at your pelvic joint. It continues to drag, putting up an inefficient lag. Your body is loitering out.

Omega hops out once he feels the proximity of an wireless console. He goes right ahead in securing the pod terminal, leaving you to judge the pistol still in your grip.

“Don’t.” Alpha pleads, humming a gut churning violet rose that branches out to your circuitry. You doubt this has the effect he had aimed for. Residual duality from where you and Omega are bound presses on its foundations.

They will not take him back.

An unsettling rock to the entire level has you looking back up. Carolina has leaped the distance between floors. She rises out a crouch with Sigma exhuming out of a whirl of fire on her shoulder. For the first time all evening, Omega rouses himself and receives no negation for it.

Carolina moves and you’re preparing to parry the first advance, when it becomes apparent she’s been brought up short.

Sigma has his palm raised, in a display of ownership. “Texas,” He presages through a sigh. “You certainly have a knack for making enemies of allies.”

Omega diverts his focus and tries to loom but you shove him back into the rafters of your shell. This one is yours. “Get her out of my way.”

“You won’t make it out.” Carolina takes a rigid step, and it’s no more minute than pleasant a surprise to hear her voice without the framing of Sigma’s. Not yet.

“She’s not going kill you. ...Much as she desires it.” Carolina’s weight rolls inches forward and stops, as if validating his point.

You mimic the position, pistol leveling up with her visor. Her forearms are trembling. Even with a rampant A.I. threatening to pull the lattices of her neural passage apart by the seams, she’s enough to slow you. “...There’s room in the pod. Carolina, let me help you.”

You watch the chin of her helmet drop like there’s a string that’s been cut. She airs a tight sob of laughter. “You shot my teammate,”

“Yes.”

“Did you kill my father?”

Alpha is riding your spinal infrastructure, “Lie. Fucking lie to her–Jesus _fuck_ – she’s not gonna listen.”

Right. She won’t listen.

“I’m sorry about, Washington.” You speak to Alpha as well. “You don’t understand much about this yet, and at this rate it’s going to be too late by the time you do–you know what Sigma wants from you, and you haven’t done enough to stop him.”

“Agent Texas,” Sigma speaks with an air of pardon. “We would be most interested hearing of how you believe yourself to be fairing any better.”

“I can handle it!” Carolina snarls, then seethes backwards through her teeth. “I’m better than you...”

You might have laughed, only Sigma’s proprietary hold on her is a lot more upsetting than your affiliation allows it the right to be. Holding out the pistol you reposition. Behind you the console dispatches a small light indicating the pod is ready. “I think you will be, after this.”

Dispatching Omega’s chip from the dock hardly feels significant, but to the second A.I. inhabiting your processor, it resonates like a firecracker lineup.

In the breaths between Omega’s slow to build cackle dissipating like a ghost, Alpha tries to overlap your control, though it would have been a futile effort even before he’d been severed.

“No–no you can’t! Not like this–Tex it’ll _ruin_ her!”

You’ll remember policing Omega over to the storage unit, the remnants of his laughter spiralling out of ambience, and what might have been the last words Carolina heard before Sigma’s took her to metastability.

“See you later, kid.”

  
.  
.

  
“She was the best.” Alpha seethes, once you have coordinates and the pod is warming.

Up until now you had been accepting his vehemence with silence, but you feel you have to ask. “Would you have rather I killed her?”

Between shared pathways, he creates a sort of grimace that makes you regret the impulse.

“...They’ll be coming after us.”

“I hope she does.” He says defiantly. “Sounds more favorable than deactivation via U.N.S.C. marshals.”

“You think you’re on U.N.S.C.’s radar?” You chip at his ego, seeking the comfort of normalcy. “...It won’t be her, the next time.”

Alpha says nothing but you can tell what is still going through his neural configurations, while they run along yours like prettier, fluorescent light-rails. Mostly a brand of uncertain accusation. He’s divided between casting the blame over you or taking all of it on himself.

There is no sharpened retort. He remains quiet, giving in to the fog of melancholy swallowing up everything else within the cramped space.

“Where are you taking me, Tex?”

You give a moment, thinking it through yourself, then settling. “One of the last places these people would ever think to look.”

.  
.

**_fin_ **

 


End file.
